


Serendipity

by insertspaceshere



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 05:36:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/606376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertspaceshere/pseuds/insertspaceshere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'<i>To everybody else, Sherlock Holmes was a crazy, sociopathic, and intensely intelligent man. To me, he was my best friend, and the greatest man to ever walk this earth.</i>'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Serendipity

To everybody else, Sherlock Holmes was a crazy, sociopathic, and intensely intelligent man. To me, he was my best friend, and the greatest man to ever walk this earth. And when I think about what that bastard did, what that bastard Moriarty did, I can’t help but want to use everything I ever learned in the army, to fight for queen and country, against him.  
I want to find that heinous excuse for a human being and shoot him through his cocky self-righteous eyes. Most people underestimate me, assuming that I was the reason that Sherlock developed a humane side. And this is true. But what they don’t know is that he also made me return to being the man, and doctor, that I had once been. He gave me a reason to be a doctor, and he gave me an outlet to release my beastly urges.  
Because, I was, and still am, a soldier. I’m a soldier first, and a doctor second. He was the only person to truly know this, others believed that the army was a means to an end, a way to get medical training.  
Sherlock gave me a reason to be a doctor, to care for someone. 

Now, I have no reason to refrain from allowing my base instincts to return. I will find Moriarty. And I will kill him.  
—-  
 _‘….That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note….’_  
Those words..they haunt me. In my sleep, when I’m awake, at the surgery, everywhere I go.  
 _‘..Goodbye, John..’_  
Seeing him jump, fall, to the ground. My heart just stopped. It still does occasionally. Sometimes I imagine that I see him, at the park, walking around with a deerstalker on, in dark alleys. Sometimes I talk to him, like he used to talk to me, asking him to make tea (which I know, when has Sherlock **EVER** make me tea?), forgetting that he won’t come back through the door.  
—-  
When I wake up, I instinctively walk into the living room and look for him on the couch. Sometimes I even catch myself with the offer for a cuppa on the tip of my tongue, and then I realise he isn’t there.  
And when I realise it, when my ears finally catch that deafening silence, that absolute lack of any noise at all, I despise Moriarty. The flat is just so empty now. Despite Sherlock’s insistence when we first met that he could be silent for days on end, he never actually was. He made little noises, the sound of his dressing gown swishing as he flounced around, or his demands for tea, even the sound that the microscope made as he stared into it, analyzing various specimens. Just the sounds of him living.  
And Jim fucking Moriarty destroyed that. _He_ silenced the man who made so much noise, just by living, by breathing.  
This is what I think about as I pack my bag. I’ve decided that I’m leaving, I’m not sure for how long. All I know is that I will get my revenge. And it won’t make me feel any better. No, it won’t. Because I’ve never taken pleasure out of killing, its just always been necessary.  
Let the hunt begin.  
—-  
It took twelve days to find _him_. Part of me think that he wanted to be found. He was sitting on a park bench when I located him, just staring off into the distance, looking vaguely bored. He knew i was there. I saw his back stiffen as I cocked my pistol, saw his breath quicken as the safety was released. It was late, so not many people heard the shot go off. Those that heard it called the police right away. I didn’t flee the scene. I sat down next to him as he bled out, and held his hand. That must have been hard for him to process, the fact that I held his hand as he died. I had to do it, because I had to be the human that Sherlock knew me as. I took no pleasure in killing him, as I had thought when I left the flat. All I felt was a vague sense of nostalgia for that first case that I worked with Sherlock, before we even knew about him.  
I can almost hear him questioning, _‘are you alright?…you have just killed a man…’_ And my own response, _‘Yes, well, he wasn’t a very_ nice _man_.’  
I laugh, because I’m thinking about the absurdity of this entire situation, and that one. How after that we went and ate chinese food, like nothing was different, even though both of us had changed. Both of us were discovering our humanity, each with the help of the other, never quite realising what was happening.  
Or maybe Sherlock knew. There were times I caught him smiling at me, and moments where he encouraged me to be a caring doctor. Of course he knew.  
 _The bastard._


End file.
